Anna Oneglia © 2013 All Rights Reserved
Among the aisles,
not looking now, I sense the cameras over me
like Chagallís beautiful strangers.
The women drift by in their little car-machines.
Wah wah, says the fat man
to himself standing among a thousand
unlit, scented candles.
Some children flee a furious echoing.
And then through the black veil
into the chill of the freezer section
to become for a second the old man there
who pauses to select one
from a thousand packets of meat.
No other world
6AM: on a road in Indiana
rests the stag head, slightly off-middle,
just missing the white hyphens.
The antlers rise from the head like
handholds or something dripped in a cave.
The sky is the cadmium blue of an empty
cement swimming pool.
No skidmarks, no body.
The head has been there for three days:
many quick glances from
cars, swervings, towards and away.
Now, the man in the orange jacket
steps up and spears it, drawing over it gently,
the eyelid of his large black bag.
Now, the man cocks his head, listening
to a rustling in the summer fields.
Adam Scheffler grew up in California, received his MFA in poetry from the University of Iowa, and is currently a PhD candidate in English at Harvard. His poems have appeared in the American Poetry Review, the Antioch Review, Conjunctions, Colorado Review, the Massachusetts Review, the Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere.
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